How Mama Got Her Twix Back

I’m writing a script for a new Lifetime television movie. It’s called: When Halloween and PMS Collide: The Baby Dragon Speaks.

As the mother of a two-year old who is starting to understand this whole approach strangers and ask for candy deal, I can honestly say never have I felt more like a pimp in my entire life– including that time I dressed up as a pimp for Halloween.

It started innocently enough. Quinn would approach the dry cleaners and record store and florist during the annual Trick or Treat with the local businesses the day before Halloween. He would score a Dum Dum or a small pack of Skittles and think the Pope just smiled at him.

“MOMMY LOOK!” he’d shout, running into my arms.

Yeah! Strangers with candy are awesome!

Then he’d get a fun size Milky Way and maybe a super tiny Snickers. Getting warmer, I’d think.

And then I would see a flash of red. Was that a Kit Kat? Or dear lord in heaven, a 100 Grand bar? Oh please let it be a 100 Grand! And then I’d see the unmistakable metallic tell of a Twixbar drop into his football shaped candy satchel.

“Hand your bag to Mommy,” I commanded. “I’ll hold on to it for you.”

What? It had to weigh one and half ounces. I’m a good mom.

Those nerds alone must weigh .4 oz!

On Halloween, we drove out to the really nice neighborhood to take Quinn trick or treating. This place was supposedly legendary. Rumor has it a full size Reese’s Cup with a hook for a hand will appear out of the darkness if you say its name three times backwards. Totally worth trying.

Bart and I ushered our son, costumed for the enjoyment and amusement of rich strangers, to the decked out porches, under fake spider webs and inflatable pumpkins and black trash bag lined garages. (Seriously, these people go all out. They even make haunted houses in their backyards.) We’d hear the nice people compliment his costume and almost always ask if he was supposed to be a frog. (He’s a dragon! He looks like a dragon!) We’d hear his tiny little boy voice repeat Trick or Treat and then a kind Thank you! when the deed was done.

Bart and I marveled at the cauldrons of candy these people dragged onto their porches. Candy miles deep. And the good stuff. Reese’s, Twix, Butterfinger, Kit Kat, M&M’s peppered with the less enticing Skittles, Nerds, a Starbursts.

“Come on, Quinn,” I heard Bart say under his breath. “Get that Butterfinger.”

“He’s going for the Kit Kat,” I commentated. “Yes! Give Mama a break with some of that chocolate covered wafer bar goodness!”

And then… we’d watch, dejected as a bright yellow piece of our hearts plunked down into his bag.

“Starbursts?” I asked. “Are you kidding me?”

“These people hate children,” Bart said.

Off we’d go to the next house and the same damn thing. He went for the Skittles, Nerds, Dum Dums , and Starburst every single time. Someone even offered him a bag of chips and he was all like, “Oh hell no. Just one fruit flavored taffy square for me please!”

Get it done, kid!

Clearly we have let our child down. We have left him in a fancy housing development with five manmade lakes rudderless and lacking immaculately paved street smarts. He’s distracted by the bright, flashy colors of crappy candy. And who gets that excited over a Dum Dum? Who??? I have done my child a huge disservice if he is unable to see the goodness that lies beneath a plain brown wrapper. What choice did I have?

I reached into my pockets laden with fun sized M&M’s pilfered from my friend’s trick or treat bowl. (Yes, I did in fact steal candy from babies. But now I’m using it for the greater good. Also, PMS.)

“Quinn, come here please,” I ushered him over by shaking the fun sized bag, (not unlike how I get our cat to jump down from his changing table.) “Mommy needs you to eat these.”

“That’s right,” I said, bursting with pride. “Eat them all and then go find more. Don’t be afraid of brown! Stay away from yellow! Be a good boy.”

That’s when Trick or Treating got a lot more profitable fun. Like a bloodhound, my little dragonborn raced around the ritzy neighborhood fetching confections for his mom and dad. A Snickers for him, a Butterfinger for me. A Three Musketeers for him, an Almond Joy for Bart.

Halloween isn’t something you can just jump into. (Again something the hospital classes and child prep books LEFT OUT!) It’s going to take years of training. A pallet must be cultivated. A hunger refined. A less confusing costume procured. By the time next year rolls around, he’ll be aces. We’ll be like a candy store Bonnie and Clyde and Clyde. Lock up your Butterfingers, ex Mircosoft employees. We’re coming for you.